


unanswerable, humming like bees, it rises, swarms, departs

by straddling_the_atmosphere



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Study, M/M, Praise Kink, Strangulation, a character study of flint and how thirsty he is, also hints of flint/silver/madi which was not planned, and not at all a character study of me and how stupid i am over this, i thought about how big luke arnold's hands and was immediately doomed, it's only brief, kind of, mentions of past Flint/Thomas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2019-02-07 10:38:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12839409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/straddling_the_atmosphere/pseuds/straddling_the_atmosphere
Summary: Sometimes, Flint thinks of John Silver’s hands. The still of them, the broad, tanned expanse of them. The way they taper into the fine bones of his slender wrists, glistening with sweat from the heat, brown from the sun.His hands don’t move, unlike the restless, ever-shifting rest of him--they have an almost preternatural calm, still on his lap, on the table. Dirt crusted under his fingernails but rings gleaming silver on long, clever fingers.





	unanswerable, humming like bees, it rises, swarms, departs

**Author's Note:**

> guys i started thinking about luke arnold's hands and couldn't stop please save me

Sometimes, Flint thinks of John Silver’s hands. The still of them, the broad, tanned expanse of them. The way they taper into the fine bones of his slender wrists, glistening with sweat from the heat, brown from the sun.

His hands don’t move, unlike the restless, ever-shifting rest of him--his hands have an almost preternatural calm, still on his lap, on the table. Dirt crusted under his fingernails but rings gleaming silver on long, clever fingers.

When Silver had told him, the blue of his eyes like the feverish center of a flame, _I think I will be your end_ , Flint had wondered, for a moment, what that end would be.

Would it be a smoking gun and the hushed sounds of a forest? Would it be a dagger to the chest in the midst of bloody, rampaging battle, a screaming and desperate betrayal.

Or would it be those hands, pressed right against his throat, wrapped tight and unyielding. Intimate, Silver’s body over his, teeth bared in a snarl, the tumble of his curls over his shoulders like spilled ink. Those big hands, around his neck and squeezing, the rough pads of fingertips on skin, Flint’s brain shutting down like the slow click of a lock. He imagined dying under those hands, taking his last breath against them, rasping and rattled, John Silver pierced into his retinas to the very end.

He doesn’t think he’d mind going out like that.

* * *

Flint wishes he could have seen Silver kill Dufresne. He can picture it vividly in his mind--the curl of his lips at Dufresne’s words, the snarl caught in his throat, dangerous and hidden like a panther in the depths of the jungle at night. He wishes he could have seen the way his fingers curled around the tankard, strong and capable like the weapons they are. That he could have seen those hands curled into shaking fists as he stomped Dufresne’s head in hard enough to splatter blood all of over his cheeks, drawing attention to the smattering of freckles along his sun-kissed face.

 _I underestimated how good it would feel,_ Silver had said, and one hand gripped the bandages near his stump, and the other flexed restlessly on his thigh. There was something wild about him then, gazing desperately up at Flint, mouth half open as he sucked in rattling gasps of air, as if he couldn’t get in enough.

“Silver,” Flint murmured, his own fingers twitching to--to reach out and do something devastating, like touch the soft curve of his lower lip, or tangle into the chaotic ink of his curls.

Silver’s eyelashes had fluttered at Fint’s voice and he’d swallowed hard. “Keep talking,” he’d begged, the tendons of his wrist tightening and loosening as he gripped his own thigh. He was hard, Flint had noticed, but didn’t seem inclined to do anything about it, the knuckles on his left hand white from gripping the bandage.

Flint wet his lips, watching him. “Silver,” he said again, soft. _“John.”_ Silver whimpered, teeth digging into his lower lip, the flash of white startling against the black of his beard. “You did so well,” Flint said lowly. “Exactly what I said--I knew I could trust you with this and I was right. If there was anyone I could trust to speak for me, it was always going to be you.”

Silver’s breath shuddered out and he swayed into Flint, who caught him by the back of his neck before he toppled over. Silver went boneless with that, his hand going flat on his thigh, relaxed, the curve of his thumb pressed high against his inner thigh. _Jesus._

“Look at you,” Flint murmured, gripping the back of his neck, fingers tangling in the hair there. “You’ve been perfect.”

Silver tipped his head back, looking at Flint with a glazed look in his eyes and Flint wanted--he _wanted_ , in a fierce, desperate way he hadn’t wanted since Thomas. He needed to leave before he did something terrible like bite at the hollow of Silver’s neck and taste the salt there, feel the rapid hummingbird-beat of his heart against his mouth.

Flint’s hand loosened on Silver’s neck and Silver let out a high, desperate noise, then flushed bright pink, down to his collarbone, eyes clenching shut, embarrassed. Flint couldn’t help but trace his finger along the shell of his ear, and then dropped his hand, swallowing.

“Howell needs to come in and take a look at your leg,” he said, voice rough.

Silver blinked at him and nodded, lips parted like he was about to say something before he shut it with a clack.

They don’t talk about it, but Flint thinks about it, shamefully, in the darkness of his cabin, or when he sees Silver look at the Maroon Queen’s daughter with that same bright eagerness on his face.

* * *

At some point, Silver had had his ears pierced but Flint didn’t quite know when. All he remembers is that one day, he had looked bare, ears clean, the hollow of his throat damp with sweat, collarbones exposed and hungry--and the next, hidden, intricate braids adorned his curls, and small silver hoops sunk into the soft skin of the lobe.

Silver fiddles with them while they’re healing--those long fingers of his hooked half through one hoop before he grimaces at the tender pull to his pink skin, rolling the metal gently through the pad of his thumb.

Flint is staring, he knows he is, but it’s--he briefly wonders what it would feel like to replace Silver’s fingers with his mouth, to tongue the heated flesh of his ear and tug down with his teeth. To have Silver press his thumb to the curve of his lower lip and to suck it into his mouth, the taste of dirt and sea-salt and sweat on his tongue.

Silver lifts his head up and meets his gaze, and Flint looks away.

* * *

Thomas used to always tell him that he was an observer--that he would watch everything with keen eyes and then decide how to proceed from there. Thomas had loved it about him, said there was nothing quite so invigorating as talking to a crowd and looking up and seeing his green eyes studying him, like he was waiting to take him apart.

“Is that why you always looked flushed after we argued?” Flint had asked, smiling, and Thomas shoved him, before pouncing onto him into the bed.

It’s a curse now, though, Flint thinks as he watches Silver and Madi dance around each other, Silver following her around with puppyish eagerness, and Madi rolling her eyes, a fond quirk of her lips betraying her true feelings.

Once, he sees them holding hands, and the sight of it had been seared into his brain. Silver leaning close to her to hear what she was saying, his hands looking huge against hers, encompassing the breadth of her palm and fingers. They looked happy, and Flint’s chest ached.

Later, Madi would catch his eyes and she would smile too, that bright thing so incongruous with the war they were training for. He smiled back, unable to help it. It felt like the first time Miranda had stormed into his room and demanded he take her out, a warm, soft thing growing in his chest.

* * *

Silver’s hand around the hilt of a sword is going to get Flint killed. His long dark hair loose and tumbling along his shoulders is going to get Flint killed. The smile on his face when Flint tells him, _good, Silver, that was good,_ is going to get Flint killed.

Flint is just going to die and it’s all going to be because of John fucking Silver.

“Are we ever going to talk about it?” Silver asks during a break, leaning heavily on his crutch. Flint’s eyes are drawn to the way his fingers hold the sword loosely, the tip dangling onto the grass.

“What?” he says absently, and he looks up when there isn’t an answer forthcoming. Whatever he was going to say stays caught in his throat, because Silver is looking at him with wide dark eyes, hair gently blowing into his face. He takes a step forward.

“When I told you how good it felt,” he says. “To be in the dark with you.”

Flint stiffens and looks away.

“I won’t tell you my story,” Silver says, voice low. “And I’m sorry for that. You have given me your most important moment, and I have nothing for you.”

“Silver--”

“No,” he says. “Let me finish. I have nothing for you except--” he hesitates. “Except me, as I am.”

Flint’s breath catches and his eyes widen. Silver’s hands, fuck, those _hands_ , flex, uncharacteristic. Flint knows his own hands twitch when he’s thinking or nervous or just standing around, frankly, but Silver has always been so still while his mind never stops. But now his fingers curl, the lines of palms deep and twisting, and Flint’s eyes are drawn to them and Flint-- _wants_. Again.

Silver licks his lips, meeting his gaze. “Is that enough?” he asks. _Am I enough?_

 _Yes_ , Flint wants to say. _Yes, yes yes._

He reaches out to take Silver’s hand, feels the rough pad of his fingers and palms, the twisting ligaments as they shift restlessly, and squeezes.

* * *

Silver’s hands on him are a revelation, the steady, heavy weight behind them, the possessive splay of his fingers on Flint’s hip, holding him down. Flint feels like he’s splintering, damp with sweat and the two of them panting against each other. Silver looks wide-eyed and dazed, eyes hot on Flint’s mouth. His other hand slides up and presses on the swollen lower lip, tingling from Silver’s own teeth sinking into it and sucking.

Flint shudders and sways closer, mouth parting and Silver slides his index finger into Flint’s mouth. He tastes like Flint thought he would--sea-salt and skin and the metallic tang of the ring still nestled near his knuckle. His eyes slide shut and he takes it in, barely aware of anything but this--Silver’s harsh breathing and big palm on his hip like a brand, and a second finger sliding inside Flint’s mouth.

“Jesus,” Silver says, sounding choked. “Flint. _James_.”

Flint feels heat curl up his spine and his hips shift, a whine building in the back of his throat when Silver’s hands flex and press down harder, not letting him move. His eyes fly open and Silver pulls his fingers out, chasing the needy noise he makes at their removal by kissing him.

When Silver shifts his body, the hand on his hip shifts further down, and everything else is lost to the heat of this, of Silver’s sharp, giving mouth, the tickle of his hair, and those fingers trailing desperate paths along his body, inside his body, and Flint feels like a fucking inferno, everything inside him burning at Silver’s touch.

* * *

Silver’s hands are trembling, is the first thing Flint notices behind the sting of bitter, desperate betrayal, the beast inside him snarling to get his fingers around Silver’s throat. But Silver’s steady, steady hands are trembling as they hold the gun, blue eyes wide and hair curling messy in the humidity. The shaking starts in the fine bones of his wrist, the wrist he’s put his mouth on, pressed his tongue to and felt the pulse of life right there--it trembles like the leaves around them, and the gun shakes in Silver’s grip.

“You lied to me then,” Silver rasps, voice thick and wet. “I wasn’t enough then. I was never enough.”

Flint doesn’t say a word and Silver’s hands don’t steady.

* * *

“Your hands are shaking,” Flint says softly. Thomas is in the kitchen and Silver looks wrecked, sea-salt dried on his curled hair and beard, dark circles under his eyes. Flint presses his thumb to Silver’s wrist, feeling the tremors in his hands, the way his fingers spasm. “They never used to do that.”

Silver laughs, a shaking thing. “Funny, that,” he says. “They haven’t stopped since Skeleton Island. I can’t--” His throat clicks and he looks at Flint’s thumb, pressed against the blue veined pulse of his wrist. “You’ve taken them from me.” His breath claws out of him. “Give them back,” he begs.

Flint’s reminded viscerally of Silver shaking on Howell’s med table after killing Dufresne, of the wildness of his gaze and the skittering desperation in his voice.

“I never took them,” he says, soft. His other hand tangles in Silver’s hair and he presses their foreheads together. Silver’s eyes flutter shut and he breathes sharply.

“Yes, you did,” Silver says. “They’ve always been yours. They were yours when I wrote out the schedule, and yours when I hunted sharks. They were yours when I killed _fucking_ Dufresne, and they were yours when you held them and kissed them and they’ve _always fucking been yours._ ”

“I never answered you,” Flint says softly, his heart a shivering thing inside him, watching Silver breathe hard. “When you asked if you were enough.”

Silver flinches, making a pained noise. “Don’t--”

“You were,” Flint says, achingly gentle. “And then you opened my mind and gave me Thomas back and you still are enough. There is enough room enough in me for more than one.”

Flint slides his fingers down from Silver’s wrist to his hands, and he lifts them up and presses his mouth to Silver’s palm, a quiet benediction.

And Silver’s hands finally still.

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from "a hand" by jane hirshfield bc i am nothing if not completely predictable
> 
> come say hi to me @ tomasortega on tumblr and bug me abt that star trek au i still haven't finished thanks!


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